


Disproportionate

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Series: Bioshock: Measurement of A Father [3]
Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BioShock References, BioShock Spoilers, Bioshock AU, Broken nose, Gen, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Punching, Rapture (BioShock), Scumbag character, Self-Indulgent, mild violence, probably out of character, someone gets punched in the face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 22:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15423237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: Stanley gets what’s coming to him—namely, a fist to the face.





	Disproportionate

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, I just wanted to write out a scene where Stanley gets his nose broken for being a lying snake. Enjoy!

Sinclair sat in his cell, it had been months since he’d been there. He was growing accustomed to his reality. Growing to realise he was never getting out.

His only place of solace was the corner of his cell. The blue light streaming softly through portholes leading outside.

One day, he had a visitor, coming in near the evening, or what passed for the evening.

He had thought nothing of it—up until he saw goddamned Stanley drag a chair up to the bars.

Sinclair sighed, getting up to meet him.

“U-uh, hey, Sinclair.” He said, having the nerve to smile and wave at him.

“Why are _you_ here?” Was Sinclair’s first set of words to him.

“Well,” Stanley sat down on the chair, crossing his legs. “I was thinking of talking to ya, maybe getting some notes outta it. Maybe an insider’s view?”

“ _Notes?_ ” Sinclair said, he had since begun standing beside the bars, arms crossed. “Are you serious?” Sinclair fixed him with a chilling, bloodshot scowl.

Stanley stiffened slightly. _If looks could kill._ “Sinclair, _really_ —“ Stanley started to attempt something resembling a scolding.

“Why’d they let _you_ in here?”

“Well, a little ass-kissing goes a long way, my friend.” He grinned.

“ _Friend?_ ” Sinclair repeated nastily, a genuine look of disgust crossed his face and he leaned back—as if from something contagious.

“Well, maybe not ‘friend’, per se— _associate_.”

“What was your thought process, Stanley? Sending me here?” Sinclair found it ironic how Stanley hadn’t been able to ask a single question—being the interviewer and all.

“Well, I mean, some things slipped out of proportion, one thing led to another—“ Stanley was about to start rambling.

“You fed them a story that I was working for Lamb.” Sinclair said flatly, pointedly. “So yes, I would say things got a little bit out o’ hand.” He finished, looking at him, so bitter that Stanley could taste it in the air.

“Oh—uh... right.” Stanley swallowed hard, tugging at his tie uncomfortably. “Ahh... _shit_...” he mumbled.

“Why would you do this? What did you hope to gain?”

“Look, I just—Ryan and his goons had me pinned, man. So—“ Stanley was gesturing with his pen thoughtfully.

“So you throw _me_ under the train?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that...” he said. Then he laughed quickly, nervously.

Sinclair sighed. “Well, here’s a story for you, Stanley.” He stopped leaning on the bars and faced him. “Listen closely, jot _this_ down in your notebook.”

Stanley looked up at him. “What?” He said, shrinking in his fold-out chair.

“Because of _you_ , I am in here—and I am a candidate for the Protector Program.”

“Wait—what? _Why?_ ” Stanley sputtered.

“They _chose_ me.” Sinclair said. He briefly flashed Stanley the medical band around his right wrist. “So, I’d refrain from asking me any more questions.”

Stanley glanced at it, barely. “But that doesn’t make sense.” He said. “The plan was—“

“Things changed. Turns out I’m more useful to ‘em as a glorified metal _babysitter_.” Sinclair snarled, signalling the end of it. “Now go. Or I’ll escort you out _myself_.”

With a burst of surprisingly cocky energy, Stanley sneered. “What’ll _you_ do from behind bars, Sinclair?” He smirked, eyes narrowed slyly. “What _can_ you do?”

Sinclair blinked at him, momentarily shocked.

But Stanley only continued his verbal assault.

“All of that dirt you were paying me _not_ to release? It’s all out, _all_ of it.” He stood up from his seat and went closer to the gate. “You got no proof that it’s a story, Sinclair. And what can I say? People _eat_ scandals up. They don’t care about no _proof_ —long as it’s got drama, sex, violence, or _all three_. In fact... I brought something I thought you’d like to see.” He cleared his throat, and then displayed a _Rapture Tribune_ article—one Sinclair had not seen yet—pulling it out of a cheap, worn faux-leather messenger bag. “Our own _genius_ entrepreneur, _Augustus Sinclair_ , getting it on with the shrink, _Sofia-fucking-Lamb_... people _devour_ news stories like that, _pal_. And a newsman’s gotta live.”

With no warning, Sinclair pulled Stanley by the front of his off-white, button-up shirt, up against the cold bars—then slammed a fist into the newsman’s nose.

Sinclair heard and felt the _crack_ of the impact.

And, boy, was it _great_ sensation.

Stanley fell backward over the chair—which hit the tile floor with a clatter.

Sinclair could see a steady stream of fresh blood already dripping down Stanley’s upper lip as the smaller man had begun the slow process of standing up.

Stanley put the chair back up shakily. Dazedly.

Sinclair briefly rubbed his fist in his other hand.

Then Stanley finally put a hand to his lips with a confused expression—then he pulled it back to see the red smudges on his middle and pointer.

He pressed the heel of his hand against the bleeding centre of his face.

“ _What the hell, man!_ ” Stanley blurted. His voice was coming out amusingly shrill and nasally to Sinclair. 

Sinclair delivered a truly hateful glower in response. Then he opened his mouth. “Sorry, _chief_ , things slipped a little bit out o’ proportion.” He managed something resembling a smug smile.

“ _Fuck you_ , Sinclair.” Stanley leaned on the chair—hand still resting on his broken nose—and seethed out between his teeth. “Can’t keep your _cool_ act up anymore, can ya? Going gets tough, and you just plain _lose_ it.” He snapped.

Stanley picked up his shoulder-bag, smearing red across his face as he pulled his hand away from his nose. “Have fun disappearing.” He kicked the blood-flecked newspaper to the base of the bars for Sinclair to stare at. “But hey, at least you’re famous. Welcome to the big time, pal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Notes!:
> 
> — Sinclair is completely lying about being “chosen” he just doesn’t want Stanley getting his hands on any more sensitive info.


End file.
